VoicesAdmin

by Phyllis Kriegel

And my salad days
When I was green in judgement
Have wilted, archived beside
Gentlemen callers, weekend lovers,
Blind date losers, elusive boozers.
No matter.  Franz Kafka, my latest
Dream mate, has come to roost.
And when he agonizes and
Fletcherizes and exercises
I tenderly sing a Yiddish lullaby.
Phyllis Kriegel
Dallied with Dante
Played at Proust
Cuddled with Kafka
Then it hit me:
Stories happen to those
Who write them.

by Eileen Brener

The deafening roar, the stairs hip-wrenching run,
a quick jump before slamming doors: I’m on the subway,
ready to demand hand-space on a greasy pole.

Over the sweaty scent of the squeezed and harried
float astonishing sounds—a flute’s mellow notes.
“Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” blesses our trip.

Straining over and around, I see him, the man
with the magic.  After the piece he passes his hat.
His audience, calm now and generous, comply.

As he moves towards me, I’m again amazed.
Stretched on his bare arms fiery dragons spit flames.
How many charms does a man require?

Eileen Brener started writing poetry a few semesters ago in Sarah White’s study group and couldn’t resist responding to the optional prompt given each week for a poem based on our class readings.

by Eileen Brener

I remember the telephone, a black
stem, deserving its own floor—
halfway down the steps from upstairs,
commanding its own table and chair,
though no one sat while talking;
somber, its operation required two hands:
one for the earpiece, the other squeezing
its mouthbox.  There was a war on:
the question “is this call necessary”
preceded all conversations.
My grandparents seldom called out.

The midnight knell woke us all
We clustered in the hallway
watching grandfather’s slow
progression down the stairs
toward the clamorous sound.

Eileen Brener started writing poetry a few semesters ago in Sarah White’s study group and couldn’t resist responding to the optional prompt given each week for a poem based on our class readings.

by Eileen Brener

Say goodbye to sweet olive
tree-scented doorways,
to a tall camellia, a twig
planted for crimson
December blossoms,
to rainbowed tender sunlight
after biblical summer storms.

Goodbye to Sazeracs, go-cups,
two-stepping down Prytania
Street with the hallowed
Saint Aug marching band,
to a Carnival box: pink boas,
yellow sequined satin pants,
Pocahontas, E.T., Tricky Dick,
feather vests, all stained—
beer, blood, grass, wine.

Goodbye to dirge and jazz
funeral feasts, to holy
days and holidays
toasting Saint Joseph,
Satchmo and Huey P. Long.
Don’t look back—
the crepe myrtles’
lacy lavender arms
wave adieu, adieu.

Eileen Brener started writing poetry a few semesters ago in Sarah White’s study group and couldn’t resist responding to the optional prompt given each week for a poem based on our class readings.

by John Krajci

The little house
of red brick on Maple
two blocks off Front
from the hands
of my great uncles
for their sister, Marie.
Spent summers there
with Cousin Georgie,
three years behind
and faithful Teddy,
white-haired mutt
with a bloodhound’s nose.
The little house
of red brick on Maple
two blocks off Front
where at the mile-further-on
you catch the bus to town
for a nickel instead of a dime
and the money saved buys
a soda pop or a Dixie cup
with a movie star inside.
Beside the little house
of red brick
the green field
Empty except
for Farmer Stevens’
tethered bull
who dropped buffalo chips
worth ten Indian Head pennies
from Grandma’s stash
for every red wagonload
fed to the garden
beyond the coop of chickens
providers of breakfast
Sunday dinner
and wake-up calls.
Weekend afternoons
at the little house
of red brick
the sleepy buzz
of fragile wings
from Roosevelt Field
tasting the tepid blue
and whispering
what’s-to-come.
The little house
of red brick on Maple,
two blocks off Front
lost now among
clapboard look-alikes
inhabited by strangers.

by John Krajci

Babble’s what I hear
from teenagers
babies maybe
women at times
young girls on their cells,
incessantly, and old men
in their dotage
Laughter’s all I hear
by the tumbling brook
at Moon Dance Ranch,
pure, sweet laughter.

 by John Krajci

“She’s a stripper!” I cried,
the name Vicki Levine churning up
memories of Gypsy Rose Lee
and Meiling, girl of my
bamboo dreams
At our next encounter
slender-firm fingers
sliced away
with surgical finesse
nasty stuff I hope
never to see again
Not in the least
did I mind her gift
for gab she kept me
in such stitches
Banter of Botox, bad tattoos,
unwanted hair, toy stores in Queens,
Lexus cars and a kid
till-tapping for shiny dimes
and silver dollars
while I barely aware
feeling like I’m playing Woody
in a new Woody Allen movie
Hand-sewn artistry
sealed the chest wound
Is that a piano keyboard
or a military ribbon?
Thank you, Doctor Levine!

by John Kracji  (1927-2011)

I’m drawn to sea
and sunfed sky since
the days when to lie
on a lonely barrier beach
would let life’s woes
slipslide away
into the land
of Neverwas
Once in such wondrous mood
I came upon an isolated tidal pool
appropriated by slippery
see-through creatures
whose pretty ruse
masks painful surprise
These sea creatures
seemed genuinely jubilant
not one of them intent
on mean-spirited encounter
At first I sat bewildered
by the scene before my eyes­
Twenty-three jolly jellies
danced a jazz ballet
led by a manta ray whose
swift simulations of flight
dazzled and razzled
one hundred happy clapping clams
Astounded by this sight
I raced the barrier beach
in desperate search for one
to witness what I’d found
Now I’ve only my word
to give to you
for what is said
of time and tide is true.